


Eulogy

by Tarvok



Series: What It Means To Be Saiyan [1]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Saiyan Culture, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 08:26:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17825309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarvok/pseuds/Tarvok
Summary: Grief is always difficult. You have to take comfort where you can.





	Eulogy

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to add a note to update everyone on where I've been. I had a surgery in October after a long illness, and, while I'm still recovering, I am doing much better. Hopefully this shows!

Eulogy

By Tarvok

 

Lighting a candle by some obscure body of sea on a planet in the middle of nowhere, filled with longing for a planet long dead, is not how I thought my life would turn out.

The smell of something smokey, spicy and hot, wafting in the air in a poor imitation of the wooden branches my father used to burn on holy days was not supposed to be a soothing reminder.

The presence next to me, fumbling slightly with the words of a long-dead people, words that are unfamiliar and halting, was not supposed to bring me comfort.

I was not supposed to feel the grief as heavily as I do this night. I was supposed to do this alone, so many years after the death of my people, on the day I would be King. This was supposed to be a joyous day, an occasion of pride. It is a quiet funeral of silent tears and misspoken words instead.

I wanted him to speak the words. I didn't trust myself to remember them. He needed to be what he was, _who_ he was, in a time and place where it was beautiful for all that it was painful.

He forgets the words, often enough, that I keep reaching over to point at the proper line. He starts over, his breath hitching with his own unique grief of having nothing of his own to mourn. He did not know these people. He did not grow beside them, he owes nothing to them. He sits here and chokes on the same air I do, and I try to pretend also on the same loneliness I do.

I take the ashes I made of my own hair and some dead grass I saw drying in the sun, and I rub them on my palms. I take his hands and rub the ashes on them as well. He stops speaking and breaks our understanding by taking my hands in his and gripping them tight. I feel his tears as he rests his face against mine.

This was supposed to be a day many would remember. I try to pick up where he left off as he pulls me toward him, the words feeling brittle on my tongue. The air is dry like dust and burns my throat as I grasp at his shoulders and finish the last of the eulogy that had taken me twenty years to remember.

I taste his tears as he kisses me, and I see loss and pain and affection reflected in his eyes. I push forward with ashen hands and he responds in kind, our bodies suited to more than war. He knows what I need, he has always known. I am not a king this day. I am only a man, lost in his loneliness and grief, with another bringing him back to shore.

 


End file.
